History Doesn't Repeat Itself

Chapter 9

A week without Gale would be easy. It was only a few days without him, how hard could it be, right? I mean, it's not like I see him every day anyways. . . only every other day.

I miss him. A lot.

That kiss that night did things to my body. I crave the taste of his lips. I crave the warmth of his touch. I crave the affection he shows and gives to me. How he looked at me. How confident his voice was whenever he talked to me. His words lingering in the air whenever he compliments how I look. All I wanted was to see him again. Just his presence gives me joy. It gives me comfort knowing that he's there with me.

It has only been one day and I'm lying here on my bed, clutching a pillow close to my body while I fake cry. I miss him, a little bit too much.

I hear my phone beep on my nightstand. I reach out for it and I hear a loud crash on the carpet.

Shit. I had just dropped my phone, and I don't have the dopamine to pick it up. Gale, you're ruining me.

I lie flat on my back and stare at the ceiling, going back to the kiss that night. Remembering his deep groans, and my quiet moans flooding the car. His soft, warm lips brushing against mine while he ran his fingers around the top of my body, not bothering to touch me in the places that I wanted him to.

I hear another beep from underneath my bed.

What if Gale was the one texting me?

That thought had me rolling over and reaching my hand down to the floor, frantically scanning around.

I bump my hand against something under the bed. I grab it and lifted it up, expecting it to be my phone.

"Huh?" I say, holding up a small photo album filled with polaroid photos.

I open the first page. It had a small, handwritten note.

College Photography Club

I giggle at how poorly it was written. I had the urge to compare my old handwriting to my new handwriting so I went to the office which was conveniently found next to my bedroom. I don't remember having an office or working in one, but it doesn't matter right now. What matters is I am able to compare the old me versus the new me. It's a very petty move, but I'm trying my best to get Gale out of my head. And this little handwriting problem is doing a great job.

I grab a fresh sheet from the neat stack and grab a weird-looking pen from the cup next to it.

I test out my new writing abilities and. . . It was still shit. I spent a very long time not needing to write, nor actually trying to write. I'm not sure why I expected my handwriting to magically improve.

I went back to my room to grab the photo album and my phone.

Walking through the kitchen, I scanned the pages of the album, it had pictures of me and Willow hanging out with some of our classmates—Some beach trips that we went on, the get-togethers we used to have at my apartment, me standing on top of a random stone pillar we found in the woods; it was probably cursed or something, hence, the car accident.

I continue scanning through the pages as I ate a slice of french toast—which I had remembered how to make not too long ago—until one picture caught my eyes.

A new memory walked inside of my head:

It was the day after we finished our college exams. As per usual, Willow and I got hella excited. Dishing out plans for the summer like paperwork. Giving ourselves a rough schedule that will force us to have the best time of our lives even if we didn't want to.